Forget Me Not
by OUATLovr
Summary: "It is you who should be on your knees. Now kill me, and do a better job of it than last time. " This was not how she had thought it would end. In her mind's eye, it had been Athos kneeling at her feet, Athos dying by her own hand.


This was not how she had thought it would end.

In her mind's eye, it had been Athos kneeling at her feet, Athos dying by her own hand.

Her revenge would finally be complete, and that gaping hole that had torn its way through her heart when he rejected her, when he'd tried to have her killed, would finally be gone. She would have reciprocated for everything he would have done to her, had not she seduced the executioner. Her life's goals would be complete, and perhaps then she could finally move on from the searing hatred that would not loose her.

But everything had changed when she convinced D'Artagnan to shoot Athos in that square, to end it all. All the years, that had been all she wanted; Athos's death, and nothing else mattered. She would do anything to achieve that end.

She was not so sure, now, that those years had not been horribly wasted.

For when D'Artagnan had pulled that trigger, and what she had thought was the harbinger of Athos's death spun through the air almost too fast for the eye to see, embedding itself in her one time husband and, she had been led to believe, killing him...Milady had felt jubilation, if only for a moment.

But then something strange happened then, something she was still trying to explain to herself: the hollow feeling within her chest, rather than shrinking, had grown. Almost until it encompassed all of her, but this was a different kind of hollow than she had dealt with for so many years.

Unlike the hollow emptiness of one betrayed, she felt the horrifying, gaping hole filling her chest, and the feeling, though certainly not unknown, was not welcome.

For it was one of grief, or, at least, how Milady grieved; by shutting out every emotion associated with that grief, with the person she mourned, in an effort to spare herself a bit of pain.

And that terrified her, for Athos could not even allow her to feel gladness at his death when he most certainly had at hers. Casting off the woman who had killed his brother and tarnished his good name, into the fires of hell where she belonged. He had not even looked back, and that was why Milady would never be able to find it within herself to forgive him, no other reason but that one.

She vowed to herself then, as the air had choked from her lungs, that she would have her revenge. That one day, she would ensure that he suffered a broken heart as surely as she did before she plucked it from his chest and watched his legs swing in the air as his last breaths escaped him. And she would be there to see it all, to see it to the end as he had not had the courage to do.

And instead, in the end, she found herself in almost the same position she had been in once before; kneeling before Athos and waiting for him to claim her life.

"Stop this now," Athos said quietly, stepping closer even as she pressed the barrel of her gun to the little mistress's head. Constance let out a whimper and clawed at Milady's hands. Her lover, D'Artagnan, glared at Milady as though she were a viper. "You've hurt enough people."

But Athos still approached her, hands out and expression oddly sad, gazing at her as if she were a wounded animal.

And Milady understood Constance's fear; for her life could very soon easily be ended. She understood D'Artagnan's anger, for such anger had possessed her often over the years since Athos turned his back on her.

But she could not understand the meaning behind Athos's calm eyes, and so she mistook it for pity. And Milady De Winter did not condone pity, even if she had, once. Long ago, when she was a different woman.

Athos did not know it, but the first time they had crossed paths after Milady's return to the land of the living had been long before D'Artagnan journeyed to the streets of Paris. It had been early on, before Milady truly became the Cardinal's greatest asset.

She had learned the great lesson of hardening one's heart to stone, but it had not yet been put into practice for very long before she heard the great tales of Athos the Musketeer.

And so Milady had done the most sensible thing she could think to do at the time. She slipped out of the Cardinal's watchful gaze to kill her husband in the dead of night.

It had not been difficult to find him, and, indeed; she was surprised that he so foolishly let his guard down when there were others, beside Milady, waiting eagerly for his death.

She found him in a small, dark, dank tavern in the slums of Paris; drowning himself in bottle after bottle of ale. She hadn't expected to find him there. In another life, he had looked upon such disreputable places with an upturned nose.

But Milady supposed that many things had changed since then.

She pulled out a knife, because, though it would not do his death great justice to stab him in the back while walking calmly by, she did not have the time for anything else, and if she tarried too long, the Cardinal would get worried about the sensitive information he had told her only that morning.

The knife glistened in the dim candlelight of the tavern, but there was no one there to see it. The place was almost empty, with one barmaid languishing on the arm of a particularly drunk member of the Cardinal's guard, and another sad old drunk, sitting on the floor in a corner.

Athos's back was to her, as it had been once only once before, and suddenly the prospect of stabbing him there didn't seem quite so cowardly anymore.

After all, if one of them was to be branded a coward, it would not be her.

Then he had murmured her name, lowly, too soft for anyone else to hear, but Milady heard it, and she froze in shock at the sound of her own name passing his lips, slurred though it was.

Athos had taken another gulp of his ale, throwing his head back and whispering her name once more, the name that she had given him but that was, like everything in this world, not really hers.

And then he apologized. Or, as close to it as she was likely ever to hear from him. He whispered that he regretted her death, even if she had forced his hand, and that, if he met her in the afterlife, he only hoped that she would understand why he had done it, and why he could not watch as she breathed her last. Because, even if she had killed his brother and done all the horrible things of her past, he still loved her and could not watch her die.

It was an apology that she yearned to hear before the afterlife, but could not listen to.

It was pity that stayed her hand then, and she had vowed later to never make the same mistake again.

"Do not talk to me about hurt," she snapped, levelling the gun at her husband rather than at the girl, Constance. She wanted to tell him then how badly he had hurt her, and that if either of them was guilty of hurting people, it was he, not her.

For Athos had made her what she had become; he had made Milady De Winter, when he failed to kill her.

And then the girl took advantage of the moment, throwing up Milady's arm, which no longer forced her still with a gun, and racing for her lover. D'Artagnan scooped her into his arms as she began to sob, whispering sweet assurances in her ears.

Milady swallowed hard at the sight. She could no longer remember a time when Athos had done much the same thing for her.

But she felt almost grateful to the girl, for she had freed Milady from the decision of whether or not to kill Athos. She was not sure that, after experiencing the emptiness of loss, she would follow through with her revenge.

Athos, her one time husband, took advantage of Milady's distraction, running forward and wresting the weapon from her hand and tossing it aside. His firm grip on her arms startled Milady, for though it was firm, it was not painful. Almost...gentle.

He gazed down into her eyes in that moment, his own blue orbs silently pleading for something Milady couldn't give.

"It is over, my love," he whispered softly, so softly that he sounded as a lover making promises, and not a man who would kill her again. And this time ensure she stayed dead.

Milady felt tears sting her eyes; not at the words, for she had known the same truth long ago, but at the tone in which he said them. For though she could barely remember a good thing about the man who still called himself her husband, could not remember receiving an ounce of comfort from him or even a bit of loving compassion, she remembered that tone.

A gasping sob tore from her throat, and suddenly the other musketeers and the girl were gone, as was the tunnel and the carnage and smoke around them. In that moment, it was only she and Athos.

She remembered that she had loved him once, just as he had loved her.

Why had anything had to grow more complicated than that?

But still she hardened her heart against him, for she could not forget his turned back as he rode away from her, could not wrest the image from her head of forget me knots, slipping from her hands as they grew lax.

Then he whispered her name, her real name, and she felt all resolve shatter in that moment.

For years now, she had gone by many different names, but none of them had been her own. Milady De Winter, Madame de la Chapelle, Milady. There had been other names; many of which had been given her, but she would have rather not had.

But even when she was alone and there was no one around that she might fear overhearing a name that belonged to a thieving girl who became a Lady for only a little while, Milady had never even uttered that name.

For, in her mind, it had died the day she was supposed to, the day Athos turned away from her. In its place had arose Milady De Winter, a far more powerful being, one who did not let such petty things as love stand in the way of her ambition.

Ambition. Ha.

"Naiome," Athos breathed in her ear.

And she broke.

He must have sensed it, sensed her utter defeat, for Athos let go of her and she stepped back, slowly. None tried to stop her.

And she knelt.

The sword rang from Athos's sheath, but his eyes did not once leave her own, as they stared at each other in a strange battle of emotions. For Milady would not look away; she refused to do what Athos had done all those years ago, just as he seemed determined not to do so now.

She would be strong in this, her second death, the death that was meant to be her husband's.

"Do you have anything to say?" Athos asked, surprising her, prolonging the death that she had just come to terms with.

Milady glowered at him, ripping the choker from round her neck. Ironic, that she had chosen such an adornment to cover her disfigurement, after all these years.

But still their eyes were locked, Milady refusing to back down, and she snapped, "Go ahead." Then, a challenge, for now that everything had been ripped away from her, she saw no reason not to make it. "Finish what you started." _This time_.

The words were not said, but Milady felt sure that Athos had heard them nonetheless.

One of the musketeers, whose name Milady hadn't found important, as he had never presented her with a chance to destroy her husband, stepped forward, a look of concern flashing across his features. But not for her, she noted, not sure whether to be angered or amused by it; for Athos, even as he held the sword to her neck.

"You don't have to do this," he said, and Porthos echoed, "Leave this to the proper authorities, Athos."

But Athos's eyes would not leave hers, and, with a strange sort of thrill that was both terrified and relieved, Milady knew that he would kill her. This time, he would finish what he started and make sure she was dead.

Good. Finish it, then! For she wanted death now, now that revenge meant nothing to her, for there was nothing left here, in the land of the living, for her anymore. She hated what she had become since the day she should have died. Often, she wished she could go back and change things.

She should have died that day. Every day afterwards had been a living hell, knowing that her whole existence loathed a man she had once so fiercely loved.

"I made her what she is," Athos said finally. Milady had not thought he would speak again, the words forcing themselves through clenched teeth. But she was far more astonished by what he had said, and that he said it to them. The words were not spoken to her, but to his fellow musketeers, and she blinked in surprise at that.

It was fitting then, if he truly believed his own words, that he should be the one to undo her.

"Her murders are on my head."

And a ripple of defiance sparked inside Milady de Winter once more. "It is you who should be on your knees," she bit out, agreeing with his words. Indeed, if he had the courage to see it through before, to make sure she died, then none of the men and women she had killed since that day would have met their end. Their murders were on his head. "Now kill me, and do a better job of it than last time."

She hoped he did not notice the supplication in her words, the plea.

Milady lifted her chest, eyes boring into him, waiting for the killing stroke even as she felt the metal touch her chest, but then the sword was gone, and so were their matched eyes.

She glanced down, breathing heavily. What was this?

Athos sheathed his sword and then stepped nimbly forward, lifting her up by her forearms. Her entire body went limp in his grasp, and she simply stared, not believing what had just occurred, even as she was pulled to her feet.

"Go to Spain. England. Anywhere. I don't care. But if you ever show your face in Paris again, I will kill you." His eyes said otherwise, but she did not call him out on it. Why was he doing this? Was it a cruel punishment; forcing her to live with what he had made her, or mercy? "Without hesitation."

Naiome lifted a gloved hand to Athos's cheek, feeling the stubble along his jawline. Just as she remembered it, though it had been thicker then. And she knew then that it was a coward who turned away when the dead fell, but it would have been even more of one who took the killing stroke.

Her eyes were wide with sadness and...something else that not even she could identify when she responded, "You know there can be no peace for either of us until we are both dead."

Her hand ran down his neck, to his chest, savoring these last feelings of him, before she pulled away. A part of her, however, remained, and, try as she might to harden her heart once more, she could not find it within herself to take it back.

For a moment, she almost kissed him. She leaned forward half an inch as though she might, but knew that if she did, it would be the end of her, well and truly.

And so Milady de Winter, or Naiome, stepped away from her one time husband.

She turned her back on him, as he had once done to her, though this time was much different in both of their minds, and she did not look back as she rounded the corner. As she entered the new life that Athos had granted her.

This time, she might have even been grateful.


End file.
